


Indiscretion

by lalakate



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Eventual Romance, season 1 AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-12 02:42:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13537986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalakate/pseuds/lalakate
Summary: When Mary finds she needs help after the incident with Pamuk, she finds shelter with distant cousins in Manchester.





	1. Chapter 1

She stands in front of the house, checking the address, comparing it to the paper clutched in her gloved hand she's carried all the way from Downton. How she has managed to keep it crease free is a mystery to her, and she swallows, breathing in and out slowly as she picks up her luggage and makes her way to the front porch.

The house is solid but far from ornate-British enough, Granny would say. But it somehow intimidates her, her-the cool and collected Lady Mary Crawley, and she sets her luggage down once more as she approaches the front door, inhaling slowly before raising her fist and knocking three times on the door.

Her fate will be sealed within the next few minutes, and she curses herself under her breath yet again, wishing to God she'd never met Kamal Pamuk, nearly laughing at how appealing cousin Patrick has suddenly become in her mind. But he won't have her now, no respectable man will unless she's able to hush up her indiscretion here in the dregs of Manchester.

She hears footsteps coming from the other side, and she swallows down the nausea that's been pestering her since her departure from Downton. She's more nauseous than not, these days, something her mother assured her would pass within a matter of weeks, and she prays Mama is actually right about this.

The door opens to reveal a man, and she blinks in surprise.

"May I help you?"

His voice is soft and even with a soothing quality that reminds her vaguely of Carson.

"I'm here to see Isobel Crawley," she states, doing her best to sound authoritative. "This is the address I was given."

"Of course," he says, stepping back to allow her entrance. "You must be Cousin Mary. Mother told me to expect you. She's at the hospital at the moment, but I expect her back at any time."

He reaches for her luggage and takes it from her without a word, guiding her into a house that smells of cloves and pine.

"I'm Matthew," he states, taking her hand and giving her a look she'd rather not decipher. Pity and censure are not emotions she takes to at all, and she won't accept them from anyone, regardless of her circumstances. He smiles at her, however, his blue eyes warm yet wary as he guides her into a dark study surrounded by books and wrapped in leather. "Go and warm yourself by the fire. It's freezing out there, and I'm certain you're tired after your trip. I'll take these up to your bedroom."

She hears him move up the staircase as she steps towards the flames, allowing their warmth to envelop her like a heavy blanket. The popping sounds keeps her grounded, and she focuses on them to keep panic at bay.

Just breathe, she reminds herself as she allows herself to sit in an oversized chair. Her hand moves instinctively to her stomach, still flat but firmer than it used to be, and she swallows, fighting back tears she won't allow herself to shed, at least not here, not now, not in front of Matthew. Staying with an overly helpful cousin until her child is born was the least offensive of her options when laid out to her by Granny and Mama, and they'd made the arrangements quietly with Anna's assistance, keeping both her father and sisters completely in the dark as to her dilemma.

He's coming back down the steps now, and she braces herself for questions he'll most assuredly ask, but he doesn't walk into the study directly, and she can't help but wonder what he's about. He returns a few minutes later, tray in hand, depositing some tea and sandwiches on a small table that sits between them,

"I know it's early for tea," he states with a self-deprecating shrug. "But I found I was in the mood and thought you might be, as well." He looks to her for permission, and she nods, more thankful for his gesture than she'll ever admit. The tea smells like heaven, one of the few aromas that doesn't offend her in her current condition, and she accepts her cup gratefully, inhaling liquid warmth before bringing it to her lips.

"It's alright, you know," he says, catching her mid-sip. "Mother will take good care of you. She's been working like mad to prepare your room and to make certain you feel welcome."

Something aches inside of her, knowing she's welcome here in Manchester but not in her own home.

"That's very kind of her," she returns, setting her cup back down on the saucer.

"She may kill you with kindness," Matthew states with a lopsided grin. "Just so you know."

She looks at him directly, and he returns her gaze without flinching.

"And you?" she asks. "Do you approve of my being here?"

She shouldn't care what he thinks, one way or the other, but she finds that she does, so she keeps her expression neutral, willing herself to breathe evenly even as her insides begin to rock.

"It's not my place to approve or disapprove of you, Lady Mary," he answers, something in his eyes making it impossible for her to look away. He leans forward then, almost encroaching into her space, but remaining just on the perimeter as he clears his throat. "But I'll help you and your child in any way that I can. You have my word."


	2. Chapter 2

Cousin Mary is an enigma.

Matthew should not be as fascinated by her as he is, but she possesses something that clasps on to his attention and holds on to it with the strength of an elephant. There's a tragic mystique to her, one heightened by elegance and sharpened by wounded pride, one that hurts to behold yet follows him constantly like a lost dog who's gotten a whiff of fresh sausage. There's her mind, one of such sharpness and clarity it rivals that of any men of his acquaintance. There's her spirit, one so fiery that it's rather shocking to note just how cool it can be to the touch. Lady Mary is a woman of contrasts, the daughter of an earl who'd been primed for a good marriage, yet a woman who now finds herself considered by polite society to be decidedly unweddable.

The fact that she's bloody gorgeous hasn't escaped his notice, either..

If she weren't expecting another man's child, he would believe himself to be infatuated with her, but it's not reasonable to be attracted to a woman in her condition, a fact of which he keeps reminding himself, not that it's helping him one iota. Of course, if she weren't with child, she wouldn't have come to stay with them six weeks ago, and he wouldn't find himself in this predicament. She also wouldn't give him the time of day, he realizes, smiling to himself over the fact that she acknowledges him only begrudgingly even now.

He's a bloody idiot. And she's a difficult woman.

"Has she come down for breakfast yet?"

His mother studies him over her juice, and he shakes his head, setting down his own cup along with the morning paper.

"She's probably still sleeping," Matthew says with a shrug. "The morning habits of aristocracy are hard to break, I suppose."

Isobel draws a breath.

"No one is aristocracy in this house," she states. "Lady Mary is most welcome here, but I refuse to allow her to wallow in her condition or act as if she deserves to be waited on hand and foot."

She stands from the table after dabbing her lips with a napkin. "I've tried to give her some leeway due to the difficulties of her circumstances, but it's time for her to pull herself out of her depression and face the state of her life."

"I'd say that's easier said than done," Matthew muses, wondering just how helpless a woman in Mary's condition must feel.

"Most assuredly," Isobel agrees. "But it's necessary all the same."

He nods as he pokes his fork in his eggs.

"I must be off," Isobel continues. "Three cases of measles yesterday means that we shall probably see at least that many today."

"Be careful, Mother," Matthew returns. "I know both you and I are immune, but I still don't like the idea of you being in the middle of an outbreak."

"Possible outbreak," Isobel corrects. "Which we're doing our best to curtail." Her gaze drifts towards the ceiling where light footfalls now tread. "Keep Mary indoors, Matthew. I don't know if she's ever had measles like we have, and we do not want to take any risks with either her or her baby."

He winces at muffled retching coming from upstairs.

"I'd hoped she'd be over her morning sickness by now," Isobel states. "Most women are by this stage, but hers is lingering. She's too thin as it is, you know."

"I know," Matthew observes. "But I suppose it must be difficult to eat when most foods don't sit well with one's stomach." He pauses, flinching as Mary continues to retch one floor above. "The morning sickness explains why she hasn't come down for breakfast, so it would seem I spoke out of turn earlier."

"No," Isobel says. "You did not. Her attitude is still far too regal for her current station, regardless of her morning sickness. You know that I neither judge nor condemn women who find themselves in such difficult predicaments, and it infuriates me that men and women are held to vastly different standards, but Mary must put her pride aside and learn to stand on her own two feet. It's the only way she'll come through this unscathed."

He takes another drink of his juice as Mary continues to empty the contents of her stomach.

"Is there any way for her to come through this unscathed?" Matthew questions.

"No, unfortunately," Isobel sighs. "She has two options: Either give up the child to whom she gives birth after carrying for nine long months and resume her place at Downton, or keep her baby and live under a constant shadow of censure." Her face creases as she shakes her head. "One can be almost crippling, while the other leaves a gaping hole inside only a mother can comprehend."

Matthew's heart cinches as he listens for more signs of sickness. He cannot imagine the agony of giving up one's child, regardless of the circumstances of conception. As a father, it would be difficult beyond reason, but for a mother who had felt that small life stir inside her body when no one else could…

It would be too much to bear, he thinks.

"What if she were to marry?" he asks. "Could she not keep her child then?"

"Suspicion would follow her for some time," Isobel answers. "But I daresay it would eventually subside. The problem with that solution is in finding a man who is willing to claim and raise another man's child."

Sweat breaks out over his upper lip, and he takes another sip of juice as thoughts he shouldn't entertain wash over him in waves.

"I should get Mary a cool cloth before I go," Isobel states. "One feels wretched after a bout like she's just experienced."

"I'll take it to her," Matthew offers. "After all, you're in a bit of a rush this morning, and I'm not."

His mother stares at him a second too long, but he returns his gaze to the newspaper.

"Have Sophie deliver it," Isobel instructs. He smiles at the subtle reminder that even as a caregiver, he shouldn't step into Mary's bedroom. "Alright, then," she continues, leaning down to kiss his cheek. "I'll see you this evening."

He waits until she leaves before wetting the cloth and making his way upstairs, Sophie be damned. His heart beats mercilessly, and he tries to talk himself out of what he knows he's about to do. He owes nothing to Lady Mary Crawley, even if she is a distant relation. She doesn't even appear to like him, for God's sake. But when she bids him to enter following his knock, the sight of her curled up into a ball under her blankets leaves him breathless, the ache in his chest too decided to ignore.

"I brought you a cloth," he says, hating the hesitation in his voice. "I thought perhaps…"

"Thank you," she interrupts without looking at him. Her gaze is fixed towards the window, and he draws the curtains apart on his way to her bedside, blinking at sunlight's intrusion into the dark room.

"The sun might help," he says, laying the cloth across her forehead. The dark circles under her eyes are painful to behold, the paleness of her skin only accentuating their dominance.

"Nothing can help me," Mary murmurs, her tone flat, her expression unmoving. "Now go away and leave me to my misery."

Her words sting a bit, but he doesn't move.

"I thought you were stronger than this," he stated, rewarded by a spark of angry challenge in dark eyes. "When you first arrived several weeks ago, you didn't strike me as the type to give up at the first sign of difficulty."

She rolls onto her back, careful to keep the blanket tugged up to her chin.

"First sign of difficulty?" she snaps. "You have no idea what difficulties I've faced over the past four months, Cousin Matthew. None, whatsoever."

He swallows hard, the tightness in his throat making it difficult to breathe.

"You're right," Matthew says. "I don't, nor can I change your past." He draws a breath he feels everywhere at once, sending up a silent prayer that he's not about to do something he'll regret. "But perhaps I can do something about your future."


	3. Chapter 3

Mary stares at Matthew, wondering what on earth he can be about.

First of all, he's standing in her bedroom, a place no good man of breeding should be, although the very reason she's situated in his house in the first place is because a very different man entered her bedroom uninvited a few months prior. She finds she can't mind Matthew's intrusion at the moment, however, not when he's brought along a cool cloth to ease her discomfort.

It's then she realizes just how ragged her appearance must be.

But she doesn't ask him to leave, not because she relishes his company, but because of the words he's just uttered, words she can't quite wrap her mind around, words still dangling in front of her like a ball of yarn rolling past a cat.

Perhaps I can do something for your future.

"What on earth do you think you can do for my future?"

The question slides out of her mouth, taking on the bitter bite of the bile she's just wretched out of her body.

"May I ask you a question before I tell you?"

He doesn't wince at her sharpness, a fact that both infuriates and soothes her.

"No one's stopping you," she replies, settling back into her pillow to keep the room from spinning about. He smiles at her then, that lopsided, dopey sort of smile that has the unfortunate side-effect of making her actually like the man.

"I suppose that's true," he rebuffs, his good nature remaining as intact as his suit. "But I would never want to be accused of pushing in."

She laughs at this, a mirthless, pathetic sort of chuckle that burns a throat still raw from vomit.

"As if I haven't pushed in on you and your mother," she fires back, noting her aim has gone astray. "As if Kemal Pamuk…"

The words catch halfway out of her mouth, willing to tell a story she's kept hidden in deep places. She looks back at Matthew, fighting back the urge to bury herself under the bed quilts, forcing herself to meet his gaze head-on.

"What is it?"

His tone is tender, his eyes too soft, and she swallows down relentless fear as she adjusts the cloth of her forehead.

"Nothing," she replies, seeing something akin to recognition take root in his brow. "Nothing of consequence, that is."

He's unconvinced, but she hardly cares as a small swell of nausea washes over her like a rogue wave on an outgoing tide. But his next words are too close, too insistent, too close to a truth that still stings in its raw form.

"This Kemal Pumuk," he begins, watching her carefully. "Did he push his way into your bedroom?"

A dull ache turns into a throb just over her eye sockets, and she removes the cloth and relocates it around the back of her neck, breathing in as deeply as she can.

"I didn't invite him in, if that's what you mean."

She watches his face constrict with her words, making her feel the need to withdraw from everyone and everything into a realm of blacks and grays.

"Dear God," he mutters, rubbing his hand over his face. His eyes find her then, and she flinches, unable to accept anyone's pity, unwilling to see his.

"I don't want to discuss him anymore," she states, making herself sit taller than what is comfortable. "Besides, I believe you are the one who had something to discuss with me."

He studies her a moment more before before setting his jaw and leaning forward. Something is on his mind, there is no question of that.

"What are your plans for your future?"

Her eyes round as her mind freezes in place.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what are you planning to do after you've given birth?" Matthew clarifies. "Are you planning to give your child up for adoption, or will you attempt to raise him or her on your own?"

Her mouth falls open, her eyes trying to blink her cousin back into focus.

"Do you know me at all?" Her words a dull, their only edges meant to inflict pain solely on herself. "I am still in bed at an hour many would consider to be ungodly late. I'm selfish and vain and have even been referred to as heartless by members of my own family. What in God's name makes you think I would even consider trying to raise a child born out of wedlock on my own?"

Her tirade exhausts her, and she closes her eyes momentarily, wondering if he'll simply leave her before she opens them again. But there are no footfalls, no sounds of anything but birdsong from outside her window, and when she does open her eyes again, Matthew is still there.

"I wouldn't do well as a societal outcast," she insists. "I'm afraid the opinions of others matter far too much to me."

He smiles then and shakes his head.

"I doubt that very much." Her stare doesn't faze him, her open ire merely drawing him closer to her side. "The Mary I am coming to know is brave, irreverent, and doesn't give a wit about other people's opinions, especially mine."

Hot tears threaten, and she blinks them back, unwilling to show any more signs of weakness when he already has her at a disadvantage.

"That used to be who I was," she mutters. "But I cannot afford such luxuries anymore." Her past life dances through her mind as one hand settles on her stomach, the small mound now too pronounced to ignore. "There is no choice in this matter, Matthew. I have to give up this child, for his sake as well as my own."

The words slip out unbidden, and she wishes she could take them back as they are far too revealing. But they're out now, hovering between her and this distant cousin who unsettles her far too much for her own good.

"What if you didn't?"

Her eyes meet his, and she shakes her head.

"There are no what if's anymore," she rebuts. "Those disappeared the moment I realized that I was with child."

"Not necessarily."

"Stop living in a dreamworld, Cousin Matthew," she fires back. "Either I find a suitable home and family for this baby and return to my life at Downton, or I keep the child and both of us live in disgrace. What would you choose?"

She's breathing harder, her body now rigid, the cool cloth having fallen forgotten to the floor.

"I would choose to marry," he replies, his tone so soft she can barely make it out. "And to keep and raise my child."

Her laugh is biting.

"Men have that option," she states. "Whereas we women do not." She breathes in deeply, feeling hotter than she had only moments prior. "Just whom do you propose I marry, Cousin Matthew? What man do you know who would be willing to marry a fallen women and claim and raise the baby of a dead Turkish diplomat as his own?"

The birdsong seems out of place in the muffled silence surrounding them. Then he looks at her, his eyes too soft, his expression too sincere, his everything too much to be believed. But he says it just the same, one word that tosses her a lifeline in a sea of condemnation, one word she cannot fathom in the quagmire of her life.

"Me."


End file.
